The Flower of Montana
by Susan M. M
Summary: Heyes and Curry are captured by a bounty hunter. (Reposted to correct spelling and formatting errors.)
1. Frannie

_**Alias Smith and Jones**_

_Originally published in __Ouch #17__, from Neon RainBow Press_

Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing.

_**The Flower of Montana**_

_**by Susan M.M.**_

Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry were taking a much needed break. They hadn't seen a posse in over a month. A legitimate job had just ended – - working for a farmer who had needed extra help until a broken leg healed – - and now they were busy multiplying their earnings at the poker table. The saloon didn't water its whisky (much) and the dancehall girls were pretty.

They should have known it was too good to last.

Hannibal Heyes' brown eyes twinkled. "Read 'em and weep, gentlemen - –full house." The handsome ex-outlaw laid his cards on the table: three jacks and a pair of sixes.

The other players grumbled as he raked in his winnings.

"I'm tapped out."

"Me, too."

A dark-haired man, elegantly garbed in a black broadcloth suit, approached the table. In a soft southern accent, he asked, "May I join you? It appears that most of the action is at this table."

Heyes smiled up at him invitingly. The only thing he liked better than winning at poker was having some decent competition.

Kid Curry glanced at the pair of dancehall girls loitering by the bar. "I may mosey on myself. You know what they say: unlucky at cards, lucky at love."

Two of the townsfolk had followed the dark-haired southerner to Heyes' table – both prosperous businessmen by the looks of them. They didn't seem the sort to pull out a gun and holler "cheat!" if they lost, so Curry figured his cousin would be all right without someone to watch his back for an hour or two. He approached the two blondes at the bar.

"I sure hope you ladies are thirsty, 'cause I'd dearly love to buy you a drink."

Both of them smiled up at him. He was easy to smile at, with curly hair and a boyishly handsome face. The bartender hurried to bring whisky for Curry and colored water in shot glasses for the women.

"I got me a problem. You're both so pretty I don't know which of you to ask to dance first."

"You're hurtin' my arm," he heard a girl say.

Curry looked up. A young dancehall girl struggled with a man old enough to be her father. Dressed like a ranch hand, he was a head taller than she was, with a scar running down his left cheek. Curry recognized the girl – she was the redhead who had stood, watching the poker game earlier, and she didn't look more than sixteen. Heyes had sent her to the bar to fetch a round of whisky for the table, and teased her when he tossed her a tip, telling her to get a sarsaparilla for herself.

"'Scuse me," he told the ladies, touching the brim of his hat. He stepped over to the girl and the grizzled cowboy. "This feller bothering you, miss?"

The redhead looked up at him with frightened eyes.

"I believe the young lady promised me this dance." Curry rested his hand on his pistol-butt as he spoke, his blue eyes going as cold as ice.

The cowboy was twice the gunslinger's age and he had four inches and fifty pounds on Curry, but he backed down without a word after one look in the Kid's eyes.

Curry waited until he had stepped away, then asked, as politely as if he were at a cotillion, "May I have this dance, Miss?"

She smiled up at him shyly. "I– I reckon."

He took her hand and led her out to the dance floor. "What's your name?"

"Frannie."

"Thaddeus Jones," he lied. "Aren't you a mite young for a place like this, Frannie? Shouldn't you be home with your folks?"

"Ma died, and I gotta eat."

"Sorry," he apologized, adding, "I'm an orphan myself."

Curry danced with her until the piano player stopped, then glanced over at the two blondes he had been with before. One was dancing, despite the lack of music, with another cowboy. The other had was at the bar, drinking someone else's colored water, at whisky prices. The man who had harassed Frannie was at the bar, too, glaring at them.

"They got rooms upstairs?" he asked Frannie.

The girl went as red as her hair – simultaneously embarrassed, confused and ashamed.

"I'm not trying to get fresh," he assured her. "You wanna just talk, that's fine. But you could use a chance to rest your feet, and it'll give that fella time to lose interest, maybe go bother someone else."

"All right."

Frannie put her hand in his and let the gunslinger take her upstairs. She knocked timidly at the first door they came to. Hearing no answer, she opened the door. The two of them stepped inside.

"I ain't never done this afore," she confessed as he shut the door behind them.

"I know."

"You could tell?" The news startled her.

"You aren't old enough for a boy to ask to a church social, let alone for what happens in rooms like these." Curry sat in the chair. Normally he wouldn't sit when a woman was standing, but he thought Frannie might feel more comfortable if he stayed well away from the bed. "Couldn't you find a ranch that needs a hired girl to help in the kitchen or something?"

She shook her head.

"Too bad they don't have a deck of cards or a checkerboard," Curry commented, glancing around.

Blushing, Frannie said, "The girls downstairs are expected to provide their own entertainment."

There was nothing much Curry could say to that.

After a moment, she broke the awkward silence. "Is it because of my freckles?"

"What?"

"Is it 'cause of my freckles ya don't want me?"

"Of course not," Curry assured her. "Frannie, I'd be lying if I said you didn't tempt me, but you aren't much more 'n a kid. I've got ten years on you."

"Them fellers downstairs, they're all older 'n you. I guess I gotta start sooner or later." She looked up at him. "And ya are kinda cute, Thaddeus."

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her, and he looked her over carefully. In his mother's hometown of Philadelphia, he would probably have been arrested for so much as laying a finger on her. But here in Montana, if a girl was big enough, she was old enough. And he would certainly be gentler with her than some half-drunk ranch hand. A girl's first time should be special.

"You sure that's what you want?"

She nodded, trying – and failing – to hide her nervousness.

"You're a very pretty girl, Frannie." He stood and unbuckled his gun belt, then hung it over the chair. He walked over to her and kissed her lips. From her inexperienced reaction, he guessed that it was her first kiss. "We'll take this slow and easy," he promised her as he began unbuttoning his shirt.

The door burst open and the scar-faced man who had been harassing Frannie stood there, a Colt .45 in his hand. "Get yer hands off that girl!"

Curry started to reach for his gun, but it was too far away, and the stranger's Colt too steady. "I haven't even touched her."

The older man eyed Curry suspiciously, as if he had expected to catch them _in flagrante delicto_, and was disappointed that he hadn't. "You all right, Frannie?"

"Yes, Pa."

"Pa?"

"You hold it right there," Frannie's father ordered.

"What kind of a scam is this?" Curry demanded. He remembered Silky O'Sullivan telling him and Heyes about a hoax he would pull with a female partner. The woman would maneuver the mark into a compromising position – or at least a situation that looked compromising – and then Silky would show up, claiming to be her husband and demanding hush money. A man had to be pretty low-down to use his daughter in a stunt like that.

"Not a scam – bait, fer a trap."

"Pa, can I change my clothes now? I feel half-naked in this get-up," Frannie complained.

"No, if it worked to catch Kid Curry, might work to catch Hannibal Heyes, too."

Curry's heart sank. A bounty hunter, and he knew their real names, too. "Mister, I don't know who you are, but you're making a mistake. My name's Jones. Thaddeus Jones."

"Down on yer knees, like you was prayin'. Hands on yer head."

Curry cast one wistful glance at his gun before slowly obeying. "You wouldn't shoot a man in the back, would you?"

"Oh, don't shoot him, Pa!"

"Wanted poster says dead or alive," the man pointed out.

"Yeah, but he's been real nice. Talked to me real purty, acted like a gentleman. Besides," she added, "he'll stink something awful if we haul him all the way to Wyoming in a pine box."

"There's no reason for anyone to go to Wyoming. This is all just a misunderstanding," Curry protested, trying to stay calm.

"Shut up," the bounty hunter ordered. "Frannie, tie him up. Tie him good and tight."

Frannie came up behind the Kid. She pulled his hands down and began tying them together. Curry held his wrists an inch apart, hoping it would give him some leeway to work his way loose later.

"Make sure it's a proper knot, too, not a granny."

"Yes, Pa."

"Who are you?" Curry demanded.

"Name's Jim Tolliver. Mr. Tolliver to you."

"Well, Mr. Tolliver, you're gonna be mighty embarrassed when you find out I'm not Kid Curry. I'm sure if we just talked to the sheriff we could have this whole mix-up cleared up in no time." Kid Curry would never voluntarily step into a sheriff's office, so maybe suggesting that they consult the sheriff would convince Tolliver that he had gotten the wrong man.

Tolliver laughed. "Ain't no sheriff. This town's had five sheriffs in the past year and a half. Last one quit two months ago." He grinned. "Makes it a nice town for my line of work."

Curry tried to keep a poker face and not let his worry show.

Tolliver shoved the muzzle of his pistol against Curry's back. "Get up."

Surprisingly graceful under the circumstances, the Kid rose to his feet.

"Over by the door," Tolliver ordered.

Seeing as he didn't have much of a choice, Curry obeyed.

"Now, you're gonna call for yer partner," Tolliver informed him.

"What partner?"

"Hannibal Heyes, the brown-haired feller you were playing poker with before."

"I never saw him before I sat down at the card table," Curry lied.

"Frannie, take my gun. Keep him covered." The girl obeyed. "Call him, I said."

"If there weren't a lady present, I'd tell you to go to Hell," Curry replied.

Tolliver drew a knife from his belt. Without warning, he plunged the blade into Curry's left arm.

The Kid bit his lip to keep from crying out.

Frannie winced. "That don't hardly seem Christian, Pa, knifing him when he can't run or fight back."

Tolliver grinned, a smug, self-satisfied sneer. "That proves he's Kid Curry, Fran. Why, any normal man woulda hollered his head off when I stuck him. Anyone 'cept an Injun or someone tryin' to protect his partner. And he sure as hell ain't no Injun."

Curry glared at Tolliver. He had been so intent on _not _leading his cousin into a trap that he hadn't stopped to think that his actions might have betrayed his own identity. If he really had been Thaddeus Jones, he should have yelled for help, good and loud.

"Call him," Tolliver repeated, twisting the knife.

Curry couldn't stop the tears that ran down his cheeks, but he managed not to scream or to moan.

"Maybe ya are part Injun," Tolliver muttered. He pulled the knife out. "Give me back my gun, Frannie. And gag him."

The redhead gagged the ex-train robber with his own bandanna. Then she pulled a pillowcase off one of the pillows and loosely bandaged his arm with it.

"Now, go downstairs and fetch his partner. Tell him he took sick."

"Yes, Pa."

Despairing blue eyes watched as she left the room. Curry tried to think of some way to warn his cousin… and failed.

* * *

Frannie slipped downstairs and hurried to the poker table. She tapped Heyes on the shoulder. "Mister, ya gotta come upstairs with me."

"Sorry, honey, I'm just a little busy right now. Check back with me in a year or two."

"I'll go upstairs with you," one of the other players offered.

"It's your friend." Frannie struggled to remember his alias, knowing she dare not use his real name. "Uh, Thad. He took sick all of a sudden and I don't know what to do."

"Thaddeus?" Heyes looked up at the young, frightened face and then turned to the other players. "I fold." He laid his cards down and gathered up his money.

"You can't leave in the middle of a hand," the southerner protested. "There's five hundred dollars in the pot."

"My partner's worth more to me than five hundred dollars," Heyes retorted, then turned to the girl. "Take me to him."

Something niggled at the back of Heyes' mind as he followed Frannie up the stairs. It wasn't that Curry had taken sick suddenly, when he had been just fine half an hour ago, although that worried him.

It wasn't that the Kid had taken an underage dancehall girl upstairs, although that surprised him.

No, there was something else, and Heyes couldn't put his finger on what.

"In here." Frannie reached for the doorknob and Heyes saw the blood on her wrist. She hadn't washed all of it off after bandaging Curry.

The door opened. Tolliver stood there, his Colt in his hand.

Heyes ran.

Tolliver swore. "Good for nothing coward! Frannie, watch him," he ordered as he chased after Heyes.

Heyes threw open the first door he saw and dashed in.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" demanded the man in bed.

"You gotta pay extra to watch," the woman protested.

Ignoring the couple in the bed, Heyes proceeded to the window and hurried out, shimmying up the drainpipe.

Just as the half-dressed man got up to shut the door, Tolliver rushed in.

"Get the hell out of here!"

"Where is he?"

"Ain't nobody allowed here 'less they pay for the privilege," the woman informed him angrily. "Get out or I'll scream."

Ignoring her, Tolliver went to the window. He looked down, but saw no trace of Heyes. Swearing fiercely, he holstered his gun and returned to his own room.

"Some partner." He all but spat the words at Curry. "Ran out on you like a yeller dawg."

Curry breathed a sigh of relief. Heyes free was his best chance of escape.

"Go ahead and get changed, Frannie. You, turn around. She don't need yer dirty eyes on her." He grabbed Curry's gunbelt and slung it over one arm.

Curry turned around. The mirror gave him a decent view of Frannie changing out of her dancehall clothes and into a calico dress. After a quick peek just to be contrary, he politely averted his gaze. His mother hadn't brought him up to be a Peeping Tom. Besides, Frannie was too young to have anything worth peeking at, anyway.

"Can we go now, Pa?"

Tolliver shook his head. "We'll wait a few hours, 'til things settle down."

"In that case, can I redo his bandage?"

"What fer?"

"It's bound to be hurtin' him, Pa."

"If he's thinkin' 'bout pain, then he ain't thinkin' about escapin'."

Frannie pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. "I don't wanna have to clean his blood out of the wagon, easier just to bandage him proper now." She looked up at her father. "Be easier if I had some whisky."

"You're jist gonna nag me to death if I say no, ain't you?" Tolliver realized, shaking his head. "Soft, jist like yer ma."

Frannie looked up at him, saying nothing.

"Soft-hearted and soft-headed." But whether he was referring to his daughter, his wife, or himself, he did not specify. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver dollar, and tossed it to her. "Go buy a bottle of whisky and fetch it up here."

She nodded and slipped out of the room.

Tolliver turned to face Curry. "You're a damned fool if you think I'm leavin' you alone with my daughter twice." He gestured to the chair with his gun. "Sit down."

When Frannie returned a few minutes later, her father ordered her to tie Curry's legs to the chair. "Good and tight," he directed. "I'll keep him covered."

"You want me to tie his right arm to the chair, Pa? Or do you think it'll be safe for him to have both arms free?"

"No reason to untie either arm. You can bandage him up like he is," Tolliver replied.

"Be easier if I had his left arm free," Frannie muttered. She tore another pillowcase into strips, dipping one into the wash basin. Then, taking the bandages in one hand and the whisky bottle in the other, she knelt beside Curry's chair. "This is gonna hurt."

Curry nodded.

Frannie tore the hole in his sleeve a little bigger, to give herself room to work. She dabbed at the wound with the wet cloth, wiping away the blood.

Curry flinched.

Then she poured a little whisky on the cloth and wiped the wound clean.

Only the ropes kept Curry from jumping right out of the chair, and only the gag kept him from screaming.

"Sorry," she whispered, going as quickly as she could, cleaning and bandaging the wound. "Better than it was," Frannie declared. "I know that hurt a mite, but at least it won't fester."

Curry had always been told his blue eyes were expressive. He hoped his gratitude showed now.

Jim and Frannie Tolliver settled down to wait. And up on the roof, Hannibal Heyes was busy making plans.


	2. Dead or Alive

_**Alias Smith and Jones**_

_Originally published in __Ouch #17__, from Neon RainBow Press_

Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing.

_**The Flower of Montana**_

_**by Susan M. M.**_

Curry awoke the next morning in pain. His arm was sore. His mouth felt funny. His back ached. And he couldn't move. Disoriented, it took him a moment to remember the events of the night before. He saw canvas above him: he was in Tolliver's covered wagon. He felt wood beneath him, saw wood to either side, and started panicking as he realized he was lying in a coffin.

The gag blocked his screams.

"Hey, there," he heard Frannie say, "think you can get out of there if I help you up?"

It took a little effort, but between the two of them Curry managed to scramble out of the coffin. He was surprised to realize his legs weren't tied together. It was merely the lack of space in the coffin that had made it impossible for them to move.

"Breakfast is ready," Frannie announced. "You gonna holler if I take your gag out so you can eat?"

Curry shook his head.

Frannie undid the gag. "Better?"

Curry wiggled his jaw a moment to try to relieve the sore muscles. "Thank you."

He blinked, momentarily stunned by the brightness when he first exited the wagon. Once his eyes had adjusted, he examined his surroundings. The covered wagon was parked beside a clump of trees. By the sun's position in the sky, he guessed it was about eight or nine o'clock. He had slept longer than he thought.

Tolliver sat beside the campfire, drinking coffee from a tin cup.

"What the Hel–" Curry glanced at Frannie and corrected himself. "What the heck do you think you're doin', stickin' me in a coffin?"

"Give me any trouble and you'll spend the rest of the trip there," Tollliver warned him. "Wanted poster says dead or alive."

"Sit down and eat your breakfast," Frannie told him hastily, before Curry could respond or retort.

The Kid took a deep breath, glared at Tolliver, and then did as Frannie said. She knelt beside him with a bowl of oatmeal and a spoon. He opened his mouth, ready to give the bounty hunter a piece of his mind, but Frannie popped the spoon in.

"At least untie my hands so I can eat," he said as he chewed.

"No."

For the next fifteen minutes, Curry was subjected to the humiliation of Frannie spoon-feeding him like a baby. After he had finished the oatmeal, she held a canteen to his lips and gave him some water.

"Any chance of getting some of that coffee?" Curry asked her.

Tolliver drained his cup. "I don't waste coffee on the likes of you."

Curry silently reminded himself that Heyes couldn't rescue him if he lost his temper and got himself shot. So, chewing on his lip, he tried to think of some way to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for his cousin.

* * *

The next few hours were some of the most miserable Kid Curry had ever spent in his young life. He was tied up in the back of the wagon, with nothing to do but fret. He supposed he should be grateful Tolliver hadn't forced him back into the coffin.

When they stopped for lunch, Curry was more glad of the break in the monotony than he was of the stew Frannie heated over the campfire.

"Hope you got that brake set real well," Curry muttered as Tolliver tied him to the wagon wheel.

Tolliver's only answer was a mean grin.

Once Curry was securely bound to the wheel, the bounty hunter cut his hands free. He rubbed his wrists gingerly, the rope having left them raw and sore.

Frannie left the fire to offer Curry a canteen of water. "Try not to rile Pa," she whispered. "He'd just as soon take you in dead as alive. And I'd rather not see you shot. You treated me right nice back at the saloon."

Given the choice between twenty years in the Territorial prison and a bullet in the back, the Kid knew which he'd prefer. "I'll mind my manners."

Frannie smiled and Curry was glad someone was having a better day than he was.

Lunch was nothing to brag about – potatoes and carrots, with a few bites of salt pork – but it was filling, and Curry took the second helping when Frannie offered it.

"We'll stay here a bit. Rest the horses," Tolliver announced.

"If we're gonna linger a while, can I mend the hole in his shirt?" Frannie asked.

"What fer?"

"Ma always said idle hands were the devil's tools. Besides," she said, thinking quickly, "he'll get a uniform at the prison. Maybe we might could sell the shirt. Bring a better price if it were in good shape."

Swearing under his breath, Tolliver undid Curry's ropes while Frannie kept them covered with a Winchester nearly as long as she was tall. Curry unbuttoned his shirt slowly and took it off. Tolliver then retied the bare-chested bandit to the wheel. If anything, the ropes were a little tighter.

Frannie fetched a sewing kit and some rags from the wagon. "Let me take a look at your arm. It probably wants tending."

Curry tried not to flinch as she undid the bandage as carefully as possible. She washed the dried blood away, then rewrapped the wound.

"How 'm I doing?"

"Wound ain't festering none. Know it must hurt something fierce, but it looks like it's gonna heal clean."

"Much obliged to you for tending it." He knew if it weren't for her efforts, the wound would probably be infected. Of course, if her father hadn't stabbed him, he wouldn't have had to worry about more than rope-burn and humiliation.

"I could boil you up some willow bark tea," she offered.

Curry made a face. "No, thank you." He knew willow bark tea would help with the pain, but the taste – ugh.

Frannie threaded a needle and picked up his shirt. "How many trains did you rob?"

He thought about saying none, claiming he was just Thaddeus Jones and not Kid Curry, but he was too tired and sore to keep up the pretense. "Enough to make my mama ashamed of me."

"How much money did you steal?"

"Seemed like a whole bunch at the time." He wished now that he and Heyes had picked one bank not to rob, and had deposited some of their ill-gotten gains in there. As outlaws they had spent their money nearly as quickly as they had stolen it on fast horses, fast women, bullets and gambling. He had seen Heyes lose thousands at poker, and walk away from the table laughing. He had bought fancy clothes –what Wheat would call "city duds" – that he'd worn only once, and then just to treat a soiled dove to an oyster and champagne dinner. And there had been buying supplies for the hideout at Devil's Hole, of course. On occasion they'd had to hole up there for weeks or months at a time, so when they bought supplies, they bought in bulk. Not to mention the money they had abandoned, like the safe in the Columbine River from their last train job, or the sacks of cash they had tossed on the trail (more than once) to distract posses. And there had been anonymous donations to orphanages, although the dime novels never mentioned that. It had seemed like a whole lot of money at the time, but he didn't have a penny of it now.

"The dime novels claim you and Hannibal Heyes are millionaires two or three times over."

"The dime novels exaggerate. There was one–" Curry struggled to remember the title. Jock Steele's _Devil's Hole Desperadoes_, that was it. "–that didn't even spell our names right."

She cast him an admiring look. Curry was beginning to feel warm. He wasn't entirely sure if it was from the sun beating down on his bare chest or her steady, speculative gaze.

"You're the biggest bounty Pa ever caught."

"Lucky me," Curry muttered under his breath.

"If your partner hadn't got away, that would've been enough money for Pa to retire on," she continued wistfully. "Maybe buy a farm, or a house in town. A nice house, with a veranda and glass windows with lace curtains."

"Some partner, runnin' off and abandonin' you," Tolliver complained.

"You didn't expect him to volunteer to get caught, did you?" Curry retorted.

Tolliver shot him a dirty look and Curry remembered – too late – his promise to Frannie.

* * *

Although Frannie finished mending the shirt before her father declared the horses ready to proceed, neither she nor he returned it to Curry. The ex-outlaw spent the afternoon tied up in the back of the wagon. He was bound, but not gagged, although he wished Frannie were gagged. She plagued him with questions, mile after mile.

"Ain't seen nothing 'bout you in the newspapers for a long time."

"Heyes and me, we retired. We're trying to go straight." Curry didn't explain about the governor's amnesty deal. Sheriff Lom Trevors had made it very clear that that was a secret. If word got out, the governor might not keep his end of the bargain. Of course, with Curry being a bounty hunter's prisoner, the point was kind of moot at the moment. The governor's deal required them to stay out of trouble. This – Curry struggled against his ropes – definitely qualified as trouble.

"Why didn't you just turn yourselves in, then?"

"Weren't trying _that _hard to go straight." Turning themselves in would have meant twenty years behind bars. They hadn't quit a life of crime out of any moral scruples. They had just gotten tired of people shooting at them.

"Why'd you turn outlaw in the first place?" Frannie asked him.

"Read too many dime novels." Curry tried to loosen his ropes, but the knots were too tight. "I was going nowhere, and gettin' there slowly. Wanted excitement and adventure, and I sure wasn't getting it in Kansas."

She nodded at him, urging him to continue. Her gaze lingered on his half-naked body.

Curry felt nervous as Frannie kept eying his bare chest. She reminded him of the time he and Heyes had worked as trail guides for an archaeologist. The archaeologist's dog had looked at a huge fossil bone the way Frannie kept looking at him – now that the mutt had that giant bone, it didn't know what to do with it.

"The orphanage fostered me out with a family who expected me to work for room and board. They laughed in my face when I suggested that since I was doing a man's work, I oughta earn a man's wages. When Heyes came back to town, and suggested he knew a better way to earn a living, I didn't take much persuading."

"Came back?" She pounced on his phrasing. "You knew him before?"

"We'd met." Curry tried to keep his voice casual, even as he silently cursed himself for his slip of the tongue. Letting her know Heyes was his only living relative, as well as his best friend, would just be giving Jim Tolliver more ammunition. "He had big dreams – fame and fortune and adventure – and it sounded a lot better than plowing someone else's fields."

"Bet you had plenty of adventures. What was the biggest heist you ever pulled?"

* * *

"We stopping for the night, Pa, or do you wanna make a few more miles after supper?" Frannie asked as she stirred the stew.

Tolliver looked around. "This is a good spot. Might as well stay here and give the horses a proper rest."

Curry wondered if Tolliver would use part of the bounty money to buy new horses. His team must be nearly as old as he was, as much as they needed to rest. He'd never seen horses that moved so slowly. Not that he was complaining – he was in no hurry to go to prison.

Supper was vegetable stew and hardtack. Curry ate it without tasting it.

Come twilight, Tolliver fetched bedrolls from the wagon. "You sleep in the wagon tonight, Frannie. I'll be out here with him."

Tolliver swore when he saw how much Curry had managed to loosen his ropes. He retied the gunslinger. One end of the rope tied Curry's elbows together; the other end was tied to a tree.

"Too tight," Curry complained. "Don't you know the difference between rope and a tourniquet?"

"If they're gonna pay dead or alive, then they'll pay with or without arms," Tolliver philosophized. "And I'm not letting ten thousand dollars get up and walk away during the night. Best behave yerself. I sleep with m' gun."

* * *

Curry found it difficult to get much rest that night. He dozed off and on, but the rocks under his bedroll made it impossible to sleep properly. His arms ached, both from the ropes and the knife-wound. Exhaustion claimed him two or three times, but each time he woke up again shortly after he nodded off.

During one of his periods of wakefulness, Curry heard a whippoorwill's call. His heart leapt.

A moment later he felt Heyes' hands – one over his mouth to keep him from calling out, one on his shoulder to wake him. "You all right?" he whispered.

"Am now," Curry whispered back.

Heyes pulled out a knife and started cutting the rope. "Keep quiet. Got to get you out of here before he wakes up." He pointed with his chin to the bedroll on the other side of the campfire.

"Too late for that, boys," said a voice behind them.

Heyes jerked his head up. He looked over his shoulder.

"Toss the knife over there by the fire." Tolliver indicated the spot with his Colt. "Then take off yer gunbelt."

"Sorry, Kid."

"You tried," Curry replied.

Heyes glanced at the bedroll. Now that his eyes had had a chance to adjust to the dim light of the campfire, he could see that rumpled blankets, rather than a body, filled the bedroll. The oldest trick in the book, and he'd fallen for it. As slowly as he could without getting shot, Heyes did as he'd been told.

"Hands on yer head," Tolliver ordered. "Frannie, you keeping 'em covered?"

The barrel of the Winchester stuck out through a hole in the wagon's canvas cover. "Yes, Pa."

"Pa?" Heyes mouthed silently. Turning his head slightly toward Curry, he asked, "That the gal from the saloon?"

"Yep. The one I thought I was 'rescuing' from the man getting fresh with her," Curry confirmed.

"Shut up," Tolliver ordered. He tied Heyes' hands behind his back. Heyes grunted once; the ropes were tight. "Where's yer horse?"

"What horse?" Heyes tried to sound innocent.

"You didn't come this far on foot. I went slow so's you'd be able to catch up, but I didn't go _that _slow."

Curry swore quietly, suddenly realizing why Tolliver had stopped to rest the horses so often.

Heyes sighed and tilted his head in reply. "That way."

"Frannie, fetch out the lantern."

"Pa, I'm in my nightgown," she protested.

"Fetch out the lantern, I said. Don't know what she's frettin' about," Tolliver added, _sotto voce._ "Her nightgown covers more than that outfit she wore yesterday to catch you."

Frannie came out, barefoot and wearing her father's coat over her flannel nightgown. She had the rifle in her right hand and the lantern in her left. She looked even younger than she had at the saloon.

"You remember Miss Frannie Tolliver, don't you? Don't think you were properly introduced. And you've met her father, Jim Tolliver," Curry added with bitter sarcasm.

"Little Miss Judas Goat? Yeah, I remember her," Heyes said.

Frannie had the grace to blush.

"Maybe I'd best gag you both afore we leave," Tolliver threatened.

Heyes and Curry shut up.

Tolliver double-checked and refastened Curry's ropes, then poked Heyes in the back with his Colt. "Get movin'. Frannie, you keep an eye on him 'til we get back."

"Yes, Pa."

* * *

Five minutes later, Tolliver returned riding Heyes' palomino mare and leading Curry's bay gelding. Heyes walked in front of him.

Frannie's eyes lit up at the sight of the horses. "That's a right purty mare, Pa. You s'pose I could keep her?"

Tolliver shook his head. "That's a hundred dollar horse, easy. We'll sell her. Sell 'em both."

Heyes frowned at hearing his horse disposed of so easily.

"Shore is purty," Frannie repeated. "What's her name?"

"Yellow Rose of Texas… Miss." He added the title belatedly. "Rosie for short."

"Where'd you get her?"

"Stole her, most like. Get yerself back to bed, girl. You don't need to be carryin' on a conversation with outlaws."

"Yessir." She scurried back into the wagon.

Tolliver threw down the bedroll from Rosie's saddle. He tied Heyes securely, then returned to his own bedroll. "Hope neither of you is inclined to talkin' in yer sleep, or snorin'. I sleep light, and I sleep with m' gun."

Under the circumstances, Heyes and Curry decided to forgo trading "good nights."

* * *

Heyes and Curry awoke the next morning to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon frying. Within minutes they found themselves tied to the wagon wheels.

In the daylight, Heyes noticed the bandage on Curry's arm. "What happened to you?"

"Tolliver."

"How bad?" Heyes wanted to know.

"Hurts. Frannie says it's healing clean."

"If we get a chance…" Heyes whispered.

Curry whispered back, "Won't slow me up too much."

Frannie brought them each a plate of bacon and beans.

"Thank you," Heyes said automatically.

"Thanks," Curry echoed.

Frannie smiled. She wasn't used to her father's prisoners being so polite. "Where'd you get that yeller mare?"

"Won her in a poker game."

"Shore is purty." She turned to Curry. "Your horse is nice, too."

"Don't need to worry about hurting my feelings. Rosie's fancier than Joe, there's no denying," Curry admitted.

"You two are the most famous varmints Pa ever caught," she informed them. "Twenty thousand dollars, that's the biggest bounty we ever earned."

"Lucky us." Heyes threw a rueful glance at his cousin. Turning back to Frannie, he hinted, "That coffee smells mighty good."

"Pa don't like to share his coffee."

"It ain't for the likes of us," Curry explained.

"I can get you some water," Frannie offered.

"I'd appreciate that," Heyes told her.

She fetched a canteen and offered it to him. After he had drunk his fill, she passed it on to Curry.

"I can get more water," she offered after Curry drained the canteen dry.

"No, thank you," Heyes said. "But if there's any more of that bacon?"

"Pa? You had all you want?"

Tolliver nodded. "You can get me more coffee, though."

Frannie poured her father another cup of coffee. After reserving two pieces of bacon for herself, she gave the rest to Heyes and Curry. Then she sat on the ground, halfway between the two wagon wheels, to eat her own breakfast.

"Mind if I ask where we're headed?" Heyes inquired between bites.

"Cheyenne."

"Cheyenne, huh? That's quite a ways from here." Heyes didn't smile, but he did relax slightly. If Tolliver wanted to take them all the way to the territorial capital instead of turning them over to the first sheriff they met after crossing from Montana into Wyoming, then they would have more chances to escape. The right moment would come, if they kept their eyes open.

"There's a store in Cheyenne that sells ready-made dresses. I'm gonna ask Pa to buy me a velvet dress. Green velvet," she explained, "with lace trim."

"Is that all we are to you?" Curry asked bitterly. "Varmints you can trade for a green velvet dress?"

Frannie looked up at him, her eyes wide and doe-like. She stood and walked away, muttering something under her breath about checking the horses.

"I think you hurt her feelings," Heyes said.

"I don't care," Curry lied.

* * *

"What are the coffins for?" Heyes asked in dismay.

"Us, if we don't mind our manners." Curry clambered up into the wagon after Heyes. With his hands tied behind his back again, he couldn't move with his usual agility.

"Wanted poster says dead or alive," Tolliver reminded them. "Only reason I ain't shot you both is 'cause she don't mind the extra cookin'."


	3. The Fair Flower of Northumberland

_**Alias Smith and Jones**_

_Originally published in __Ouch #17__, from Neon RainBow Press_

Standard fanfic disclaimer that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, I'm just borrowing them for, um, typing practice. That's it, typing practice. I'll return them to their actual owners (relatively) undamaged. This is an amateur work of fiction; no profit beyond pleasure was derived from the writing.

_**The Flower of Montana**_

_**by Susan M. M.**_

They rode in silence for an hour or so. Tolliver was not inclined to talk.

Heyes was busy making and discarding escape plans. Curry and Frannie were both sulking.

After a while, the quiet bored Frannie. She went back by Heyes and Curry, and started asking them about their horses. Heyes couldn't help noticing that although most of her questions were directed to him, her gaze went from the horses trailing behind the wagon to the Kid –back and forth, from the Kid to Rosie and Joe, back to the Kid.

Heyes nudged his partner with his foot.

Curry looked up.

Heyes tilted his head toward Frannie. "Apologize," he mouthed silently.

Curry shook his head.

Heyes repeated the order, the expression on his face making it clear that he was speaking not as Curry's cousin, but as leader of the Devil's Hole Gang.

"Frannie?" Curry said tentatively.

The girl turned to him, every ounce of her attention directed to the gunslinger.

"Shouldn't have snapped at you like that at breakfast… Sorry."

Her eyes lit up, like a doe's eyes caught in a poacher's lantern. Just for a second, she grinned. Then she schooled her features to a more ladylike expression. She inclined her head in what was meant to be a gracious, mature gesture, but it reminded Heyes of a little girl pretending to be a society dowager at a make-believe tea party.

"That's all right. Can't expect you to be as pleased with the situation as we are," Frannie said.

"Ain't," Curry told her bluntly, "but I promised you I'd mind my manners. A gentleman doesn't break a promise to a lady."

She sat up straighter, all but glowing at being called "a lady."

Heyes observed her reaction. In the back of his mind, the glimmer of a plan began to take shape. Meanwhile, he turned the conversation back to his horse.

It was only in the dime novels that a cowboy's best friend was his horse, or that horses were noble, clever steeds. Most horses were nothing but stomachs with legs, and dumber than a pile of rocks to boot. But Rosie was different. She was as gentle and sweet-tempered a creature as had ever been born, smart for a horse, and faster than the wind.

Heyes could talk about Rosie for hours. And, after a while, he commented, "If you don't mind me saying so, Frannie, you remind me a mite of my sister."

"Abby?" Curry asked him.

Heyes nodded.

"You got a kid sister back home, worrying and fretting over you?" Frannie asked him.

Heyes shook his head. "Abigail was my older sister. She was a bit younger than you when she was killed by Quantrill's Raiders. Ra–" Heyes stopped himself. He'd been about to say "raped and murdered." As young as Jed Curry had been when their families had been killed, the Kid hadn't realized what the conditions of their mothers' and sisters' bodies meant and Heyes saw no reason to break the news to him now. "Anyhow, she was horse crazy before the raiders killed her…"

* * *

"Frannie, hand me my rifle," Tolliver ordered.

She fetched it to him.

"Take the reins. I'm goin' huntin'."

"Yes, Pa."

"They give you any trouble, shoot 'em."

She hesitated a second before replying. "Yes, Pa."

Tolliver checked the outlaws' ropes before slipping out to acquire some fresh meat. Once he was gone, and Frannie was in the front of the wagon, Curry whispered, "You got a plan to get us out of here yet?"

"Almost," Heyes whispered back. "Almost."

* * *

They stopped early for lunch when Tolliver returned with three rabbits. Frannie insisted on it, complaining it was too difficult to skin rabbits in a moving wagon. One at a time, first Heyes and then Curry, were escorted from the wagon and behind the bushes, out of Frannie's sight for a moment. After answering the call of nature, they were ordered to sit on the ground next to a wheel, and tied to the spokes. Tolliver kept his gun trained on them while Frannie tied the knots.

Once both outlaws were secured, Frannie set to work on the rabbits. Tolliver started a fire.

Heyes started whistling.

Curry turned his head to look at him. The tune was familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"What's that you're doin'?" Tolliver demanded.

Heyes looked up at him with innocent brown eyes. "Who, me? Just whistling a song my grandmother used to sing."

"Well, shut up. I ain't in the mood to listen to yer caterwaulin'."

Curry thought hard. Grandma Curry had loved the ballads from the old country that _her _grandmother had taught her. He tried to remember. After a moment, it came to him. One of Grandma Curry's favorites had been "The Flower of Northumberland," a song about an English knight's daughter who fell in love with a Scottish prisoner. The words leapt into his head.

_"Oh, if a lassie would marry me,"  
-Oh, but her love 'twas easy won.  
"I would make her a lady of high degree,  
If she'd loose me out of my prison so strong."_

_So she's made her way to her father's good stocks,  
Oh, but her love 'twas easy won.  
And she's stolen the keys there for many brave locks  
For to loose him out of his prison so strong._

Curry shot his cousin a dirty look. _That _was his plan?

Heyes gestured at Frannie.

Curry took a deep breath. "Frannie? Could I ask you a favor?"

She turned to look at him, an eager expression on her face.

"Could I change my mind about that willow bark tea? My arm's hurting something fierce."

"I'll boil you some right away." After a dirty look from her father, she added, "Once I set these rabbits to roasting."

"I'd 'preciate that," Curry lied. His stomach rebelled at the mere thought of willow bark tea. It would help the pain in his arm, though. And he had yet to meet a female of any age who didn't enjoy fussing and fretting over an ailing male. There was something about a man being helpless that made most womenfolk downright territorial.

Five minutes later, she handed him a tin mug.

Curry frowned. "I hate this stuff."

"I put some honey in it so it wouldn't taste like," she lowered her voice, "boiled horse-droppings. Drink it down," she urged. "It'll do you good."

He obeyed, making a face with every sip.

"Ma always said if it didn't taste bad, it wouldn't work."

Curry forced a smile. "My ma used to say the same thing whenever she gave me cod liver oil. You know what's gonna help more than the willow bark tea?"

"What?"

"Having a pretty girl nurse me," Curry said flirtatiously.

Frannie blushed and smiled. "Maybe I should check your bandage."

"Check the rabbits afore they burn," Tolliver ordered. He added, "That wound won't never heal if ya keep pokin' at it."

Chastened, she hurried to supervise their lunch.

Tolliver spit on the ground, mere inches from Curry's boots. "Don't matter what condition he's in. We'll get that ten thousand dollars whether he's hale and hearty or dyin' of gangrene."

Discretion being the better part of valor, Heyes and Curry both shut up. When lunch was ready, both thanked Frannie politely.

"Ain't never had such nice-spoken prisoners. I heard more pleases and thank yous in the past two days than I normally hear in two or three months," Frannie marveled.

"You don't generally meet a better class of people when you hang around with criminals," Heyes informed her solemnly. "It's one of the reasons we decided to retire from robbing banks and trains." Under his breath, he added, "Bounty hunters were another."

Before Frannie could ask Heyes what he'd said, Curry spoke up. "You're gonna look mighty pretty in that green velvet dress with the white lace trim. I'm just sorry I won't have a chance to see you in it."

Frannie smiled shyly. Her father frowned.

Curry lowered his voice, adopting a confidential tone. "Much as I enjoyed dancing with you the other night, bet I'd appreciate it even more if you were all gussied up in that green dress. Soft music, maybe a waltz where I could hold you in my arms–"

"Frannie! Get me more coffee."

"Yes, Pa." After pouring his coffee, she started back to the bandits. Tolliver grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to sit by him.

After they had finished eating, Tolliver gagged his prisoners with their own bandannas. "You two talk too much. _She _may be too young to realize what yer up to, but _I _weren't born yesterday."

Curry shot Heyes an inquiring look that silently asked "Now what?"

* * *

The next twenty-four hours were both tedious and uncomfortable. They were bound at all times, and gagged except for meals. Tolliver kept Frannie up front with him, not permitting her to spend any time with the ex-outlaws.

Lunch the next day was hardtack, bacon and beans. They had finished the rabbit in the stew for yesterday's supper, and even bound and gagged, Tolliver hadn't trusted them alone with his daughter while he went hunting for more fresh meat.

Frannie handed Heyes a plate.

"Tha– Did you hear that?"

"Ya think I'm gonna fall fer a trick that old?" Tolliver sneered.

The sound came again – a slither in the dirt, a low hiss, and then the noise every westerner learns to recognize and fear: a rattle! The snake struck, its fangs sinking into Tolliver's leg. Startled, he fell and hit his head against a rock.

"Pa!"

"Quiet," Heyes urged.

"Frannie, move real slow and easy. Don't attract its attention. Get my gun," Curry ordered.

Frannie just stared at her father and the snake, panic-stricken.

"The one thing the dime novels didn't lie about is my marksmanship. Get my gun so I can shoot it before it strikes again," Curry said.

"Move real slow," Heyes advised her.

Frannie inched her way to the wagon. It seemed to take forever, but a moment later she pressed Curry's gun into his hand. The gunslinger took a deep breath, released half of it, and aimed. He waited until he had a clear shot, and then gently squeezed the trigger.

The snake fell dead.

Curry exhaled. So did Frannie and Heyes.

"Pa!" She ran to him, pulling off his bandanna and trying to staunch the bleeding on his head.

"I'd worry about that snake bite before the blood if I were you," Heyes told her.

"You need to get the poison out before it spreads," Curry told her helpfully.

"Gotta get the poison out," Frannie repeated fearfully. She drew her father's knife from its sheath.

"For Heaven's sake, don't slit his leg open before you tourniquet it off!" Heyes thought quickly. "I can do it. I've done it before."

A relieved Frannie looked up at him gratefully.

"_If _you promise to let us go," Heyes continued.

"Pa'd kill me if I let you go!" she protested.

"He'll die if you don't," Heyes countered. He didn't mention the gun his cousin held. Frannie would never believe that Kid Curry would shoot her. He didn't believe it himself.

"You're the biggest bounty we ever caught. Pa'll skin me alive if I let twenty thousand dollars just walk away," she murmured.

"Cut me loose now and I might be able to save him. The longer you wait, the worse his chances are," Heyes pointed out.

Frannie hesitated.

Heyes added, with just a touch of ruthlessness, "Twenty thousand dollars will buy a might fancy headstone."

Frannie hurried to his side and began sawing on the ropes.

"Your word?" Heyes persisted.

Frannie nodded. "Kiss-the-Bible promise."

"You still got that whisky you used to clean my arm?" Curry asked her. "Go fetch it. Heyes'll need it."

Frannie hurriedly fetched the bottle. She handed it to Heyes, who poured some over the knife before he held the blade to the fire. He took off his bandanna and used it to tourniquet Tolliver's leg just below the knee. After being used as a gag so long, it wasn't that clean, but it would have to do.

He poured a little whisky on the bite, then took a quick swig himself. He slit Tolliver's calf where the rattler had bit him, leaned over the wound and began to suck the poison out.

"Frannie, you prob'ly don't want to watch this," Curry told her gently.

Nodding, she edged her way over to him and sat on the ground beside him.

"It'll be all right. Heyes did all the doctoring for the Devil's Hole Gang," Curry assured her.

After sucking and spitting three times, Heyes took another swig of whisky. He swirled it around in his mouth and spit it out.

"Why don't you untie me?" Curry suggested. "Please, Frannie?"

Nervous fingers fumbled with the knots. She kept glancing over her shoulder at Heyes as she struggled with Curry's rope.

"You can bandage his head now. I think I got most of the venom out," Heyes announced.

Frannie abandoned Curry to rush to her father's side, but the rope was loosened enough for him to work free by himself.

"You'll need to loosen the tourniquet in about ten or fifteen minutes. Probably your best bet would be to find the nearest town with a doctor," Heyes advised her. "Wouldn't be surprised if he had a concussion from hitting his head on that rock. Kid, help me sit him up. Let's get some of this whisky down his throat."

"Should he drink that in his condition?" Frannie asked them.

"It'll kill the pain," Heyes replied.

Once they had forced a generous dollop of whisky down Tolliver's throat, Heyes turned to his cousin. "She'll never be able to manage him, not at her size. Help me get him in the wagon."

Heyes and Curry half-dragged, half-carried the unconscious bounty hunter to the back of the wagon, then hefted him up.

Curry kept his voice low so Frannie couldn't overhear. "Why didn't you make him drink that disgusting willow bark tea?"

"Because whisky will knock him out and tea won't."

Curry's blue eyes glinted mischievously. "Can we put him in the coffin, like he put me?"

"Might save time," Heyes allowed.

"You don't think he's gonna make it?" Curry asked as they hoisted Tolliver into one of the coffins.

"I'd say his chances are fifty/fifty. The snake that bit Kyle, it was a baby – probably only a month or two out of the egg. This snake was full grown. Bound to have more venom than the one that bit Kyle." He wondered as they climbed out of the wagon if snake venom, like good brandy, got stronger with age.

"Go get our horses, Kid. Frannie, where does your Pa keep his money?"

She looked up at him with hurt eyes. "I thought you said you retired from robbing folks."

"I was in a high stakes poker game when we met, remember? I just want back what's mine."

"In a box under the seat," she admitted grudgingly.

Heyes climbed up to the driver's seat. Reaching under the bench, he felt around until he found a tin box. Inside was a pile of wanted posters and, beneath them, the money. He carefully counted out his four hundred. He hesitated when he saw that left the Tollivers with only nineteen dollars. Their finances weren't his problem. For all he knew, Jim Tolliver had a hundred dollars in his pocket.

Heyes sighed and counted out fifty and put it back in the box.

He climbed down. Curry was waiting for him with the horses. Heyes handed him half of the cash. Curry frowned.

"Frannie, would you mind rustling us up some fresh grub? With all the excitement, none of us ate lunch, and those beans prob'ly ain't fit to eat now." When she hesitated, Curry added, "You need to keep your strength up so you can tend to your Pa."

She nodded and wandered away.

Once she was out of earshot, Curry confessed, "I don't feel right leaving her all alone."

Heyes didn't reply. He had been afraid the Kid would complain about abandoning a teenaged girl and her dying father.

"She ain't much more 'n a kid."

"We don't owe them anything," Heyes protested, although he, too, felt a little uncomfortable with the notion.

"Even the feller in the song didn't just abandon the girl on the moors, all by her lonesome."

Heyes quoted softly, "'And he's hired her a horse, and he's hired her a man, and sent her back home to Northumberland.' All right, we'll ride alongside the wagon until we're in sight of a town. Then we part company."

Curry nodded. He turned to Joe and started digging into his saddlebag.

"What're you doing?" Heyes asked him.

"I've been in the same clothes for three days. I'm gonna take a bath in that creek and change my clothes." Curry grabbed a clean shirt and pants and walked off into the trees.

* * *

That afternoon they proceeded slowly. Heyes and Curry were both stiff, and Frannie was afraid of jostling her father.

They stopped by a pond about four o'clock.

"Pa's got a fever," Frannie announced worriedly.

"Brew him up some of that willow bark tea," Heyes advised. "It should bring the fever down. Put a dollop of whisky in it." If the tea didn't ease the pain, then the whisky would keep him from minding.

"We'll try to catch some fish," Curry told her.

Frannie nodded, but the worried expression remained on her face.

An hour later, fresh-brewed coffee and fried fish had the three of them feeling more comfortable.

"So we dragged the safe up the mountain again and pushed it off," Curry said.

"Aiming for the rocks," Heyes chimed in.

"And then what happened?" Frannie asked, much more relaxed with dinner in her belly and anecdotes filling her ears and diverting her mind.

"The safe missed the rocks and sank into the river. We dove for it for– How long, Heyes?"

"Almost an hour, I think."

"About an hour. Never did manage to find it."

"You mean it's still at the bottom of the river?" Frannie asked in disbelief.

"Unless the rest of the Devil's Hole Gang went back to fish it out," Curry said.

"The posse was coming. We couldn't afford to wait any more," Heyes explained.

"So you just rode away from fifty thousand dollars?"

"Hated doing that," Heyes admitted. He had thought about going back to try to retrieve the safe more than once. "But the posse was on its way, and we figured we'd hate twenty years behind bars more."

"If you're facing a prison term instead of the noose, why are you wanted dead or alive?" Frannie asked them.

Kid Curry had often wondered the same thing himself.

"The banks and the railroads are the ones who put up the reward. They don't like us much." Heyes changed the subject. "If I'm reading this map right, we should make Taylor Springs in an hour or so. That's where we say goodbye."

He wished she wouldn't look at him with those wounded-doe eyes.

* * *

Curry packed the hardtack and beans into his saddlebag. "You sure you won't need this?"

Frannie shook her head. "I can get more supplies in town."

"If you push the horses, you'll have no trouble making Taylor Springs before dark," Heyes hinted.

Frannie nodded.

"I want you to make me a promise, Frannie," Curry demanded.

"What?"

"I don't want you going into a saloon or dressing up like a dancehall girl again. You're too young and it's too dangerous. I don't care how big the bounty is. Promise?"

"But Pa said–"

"The next fella may not be of a mood to play checkers. I want your word," the gunslinger insisted.

"I promise. Kiss-the-Bible," she pledged.

Curry gently kissed her cheek. "Goodbye, Frannie. I won't forget what you did for me."

"You'd best get if you wanna make town before sunset," Heyes advised, not unkindly. "Goodbye."

Curry helped her up into the wagon. He remounted and he and Heyes rode away as she said goodbye.

"What was that about checkers?" Heyes asked him.

Curry explained how and why he had taken Frannie upstairs at the saloon.

"One of these days, Kid, that irresistible urge of yours to rescue every stray kitten _you _come across is going to get _us _into trouble that _I _can't get us out of."

Curry shook his head. "Never happen. You'll always come up with a plan."

Heyes turned his head so his cousin couldn't see him smiling. "Let's keep going south about a mile or so and then head west. Just in case Frannie tells her father which way we went."

"She won't," Curry said confidently. But it was a sensible precaution, so he followed his cousin's lead, just as he always had, just as he always would.

So, Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry rode into the sunset, singing as they went.

_But when she got there her father did frown,  
__Saying, "Oh, but your love 'twas easy won,  
__To go with a Scotsman when you're barely sixteen,  
__And you the fair flower of Northumberland."_

_But when she got there her mother did smile,  
__Saying, "Oh, but your love 'twas easy won,  
__But you're not the first that the Scots did beguile,  
__And you're welcome back home to Northumberland"._


End file.
